


Under Your Skin

by Val_Creative



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Adults, Blood, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Presents, Corruption, Dark, Dark Character, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Horror, Implied/Referenced Incest, Introspection, Knives, Post Movie: Halloween II (1981), Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Fantasy, Stalking, Violent Thoughts, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Months later, Laurie processes the aftermath of Halloween night and continues being stalked by Michael Myers.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Laurie Strode
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54
Collections: Holiday Horror 2020





	Under Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wiccy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiccy/gifts).



*

Haddonfield becomes a sleepy little town once more when another December hits.

The big news stations around Illinois and Indiana, as well as Wisconsin, lose interest for other horrific tragedies. Everybody who hasn't been purposefully and nervously ignoring Laurie finally fucks off — and she prefers it that way. They can all fuck off.

Strode Realty, however, has never gotten so much business before. Laurie can guess _why_.

Morgan Strode vanishes for the weekdays. He takes calls at his office, planning appointment showings and closing deals, and misses their family dinners much to his wife's solemn, frowning disapproval. Pamela Strode tuts quietly to herself and occasionally to Laurie, lighting up a cigarette between her fingers under the porchlight. She's always been passive aggressive.

Nobody under this roof wants to talk about _what happened_.

Laurie can sometimes feel the dull, hot rage flaring under her skin.

She almost _died_.

Twice.

And nobody wants to acknowledge that. They dump the school counselor on Laurie before winter break who awkwardly fiddles with his clipboard, jotting a bunch of useless notes and nodding, and makes annoyingly monotonous throat-hums whenever Laurie speaks. She thinks _sometimes_ numbly about taking Mr. Tate's pen and jamming it deep into his artery.

_Sometimes._

Laurie rolls out of bed on a late Saturday afternoon, feeling extremely groggy. Frost twinkles on her window-pane. She shivers, pulling on a crimson-colored, fleece bathrobe over her short nightgown. Her light brown hair tousled and tangled.

The coffee tastes burnt. Laurie drinks from a Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer mug, staring vacantly at the kitchen countertop.

"Laurie, dear!" Pamela Strode's voice rings out. Silvery and bright. "Laurie! Oh my goodness, honey—why aren't you dressed?" A tutting noise. Laurie's mouth clenches, but she says nothing. Her _adoptive_ mother combs her fingertips into Laurie's hair fretfully. "The Nelsons will be here soon and your father—lord have mercy, you're so pale. You're cold. I'll turn up the heat."

"Maybe it's the blood loss," Laurie mutters, sipping again. Not even the holiday peppermint creamer helps.

Pamela Strode doesn't seem to have heard her, straightening the fluffy-soft lapel of Laurie's bathrobe. "Don't you want to wear your new dress, honey? You look so pretty in dark blue. Maybe we'll get some photos tonight and you can show your friends."

At this, Laurie feels her insides roil heavily with nausea.

She found her friends dead last Halloween. Annie Brackett and Lynda Van Der Klok.

They were _innocent_.

After a moment of unpleasant clarity, and noticing Laurie's darkened expression on her, Pamela Strode rolls her eyes. 

"Laurie, what do you want me to do? Hmm?" her mother says snappishly. "We didn't tell you about any of it to protect you. The Governor of Illinois had the documents sealed and you were _our_ child as soon as you were handed over to us. We thought the nightmare was over. If anyone is to blame about what happened to you, it's that lunatic psychiatrist of his that set him free."

_Protect her?_

Laurie glances back to the counter, rubbing over her arm-scar hidden. "It doesn't matter," she murmurs, reaching absentmindedly for the knife block nearby. Laurie's fingertips gently caress like kisses over a steel silver-edged handle. 

Her body gradually relaxes.

She feels oddly… _calmer_ … like this.

"That was my brother." Laurie says tonelessly, hearing Pamela Strode huff in irritation. "He wanted me dead, Mom. He broke out of Smith's Grove Sanitarium on his own and wanted me dead. I don't know why… but I'm sure he knows. Ask him."

Fingers grip harshly around Laurie's wrist, pulling her away from the kitchen knife's _mesmerizing_ handle.

"Michael Myers is dead. You know that."

Laurie only sulks up at her adoptive mother. "May I be excused?" she says, getting up without waiting for an answer and dumping her lukewarm, tasteless coffee in the sink. A real pine wreath hangs above on the wall. Gold-glass ornaments and scarlet silk. Laurie heads to the garage's backdoor, needing to be alone with the cold, fresh air. Snowflakes drift to her lashes.

She looks down, and then backs up with widening eyes. A bouquet of dried, dying poinsettias waits at Laurie's slippers.

Blood glistens on their petals.

Laurie closes her eyes, inhaling shakily.

It could be a hateful Christmas prank from a neighbor. It could be anything else but _him._

"Michael…"

She uncrosses her arms, grabbing the red poinsettias and chucking them hurriedly into the outdoor trash can. Laurie avoids the blood. Her slipper digs beneath the ice-crusted snow, nudging away the warm crimson stains from the existence.

*

Her adoptive parents greet the Nelsons with cheerfully artificial smiles. They laugh, offering eggnog and congratulating Mrs. Nelson on the oldest son, Maurice Nelson — the naval officer who returned home — getting the new house in Wicker Park.

Laurie disappears from their attention. She kicks off her heels and shuts her bedroom door so nobody can hear.

The dark blue velvet itches. 

Her nails scratch at her thigh. Laurie gives up, yanking off the dress and leaving on her bra and neutral-colored hose. She flops onto the mattress, gazing up broodingly at her unlit ceiling. There's nothing in her memory about Judith or Michael. _Nothing_. Laurie wonders if it's the early childhood trauma or not. She doesn't even know what her brother looks like.

_Michael…_

His name stifles in Laurie's mouth. He's still out there. Close. He's closer than ever, and Laurie wonders, _wonders_ if there's a way to stop him. To keep him placated that the cops or Doctor Loomis haven't thought about yet. He wants _her_.

Laurie bites her lip, crawling her fingers over her belly and down to her underwear. 

_Her._

It's her. 

It's the only thing holding Michael's attention. Or he would kill more innocent people. 

Hatred spills like fluid, dampening Laurie's hand grinding on herself. She would do it—she would be the sacrifice given to end this years-long nightmare. Even if it meant _fucking_ her homicidal older brother. Laurie imagines it, shuddering and whining under her breath, with Michael's scarred hands roughly covering Laurie's naked breasts. Him hurting her.

Laurie's fingers stroke over her vaginal folds, pressing in further. 

She imagines the weight of Michael on her back, grunting in her ear and his cock thrusting so-slow. Rage burns needfully under Laurie's skin, spurred on by this horrific, mortified arousal. She quits touching herself, crying quietly.

_No…_

The quilt goes over her head. Laurie burrows herself in it, sniffling and trying to fall asleep. 

And completely unaware of the shadow of a towering figure lingering her closet.

She dreams of muffled, heavy breathing.

*


End file.
